


In All Times and Spaces

by BrynTWedge



Category: Cabin Pressure, Doctor Who (2005), Kingsman (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Mycroft Holmes/Harry Hart, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-11 20:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15980060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: Greg wants a relationship with Mycroft. He decides to ask him to dinner. It should be simple enough, right?Wrong.In trying to get closer to Mycroft, he's thrown into a world of secret agents and time-travelling aliens. Dinner goes from hopeful to awkward, to deadly, and then just insane.If he'd woken that morning knowing that twelve hours later, instead of having a romantic dinner with his hopefully boyfriend-to-be, he'd be inside a space ship aboard a charter jet destined for Fitton... he'd be sure he was actually still dreaming.





	1. Harry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lmirandas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmirandas/gifts).



> Hey everyone! I hope this isn't too complicated or rushed. I wanted something short-ish combining all these worlds but still more a romance than an action story... it was a challenge, let me tell you!

Greg knew he didn’t belong here, from the street alone. Saville Row; he didn’t need to see beyond the rustic wood door to know. But, it _was_ somewhere Mycroft fitted in, and so his suspicions about Sherlock’s cryptic text message were seemingly on the money. 

“Can I help you, sir?”

Greg noted the accusation in the man’s tone. He was prim and proper, just the sort to match the shop, in a beautifully bespoke suit.

“Uhh, perhaps,” Greg ventured. He stepped forward towards the desk and looked into the spectacled man’s eyes. He was met, curiously, by the self-confident and dangerous gaze that he saw in Mycroft. It wasn’t the look of a simple tailor, like Mycroft’s wasn’t of a simple civil servant. 

_On the right track, then._

“DI Lestrade,” he stated reflexively.   
“Mr Hart,” the man responded, without batting an eyelid to a detective’s presence in his shop. “Is there a matter wherein I might be of assistance?”  
“I’m not here officially.”  
“Then where are you? Forgive me, that was terribly rude of me—”  
“No,” Greg chuckled, “It was good. I don’t actually know why I’m here. My, er, friend send me a text message to come here at this time.” 

“I see,” Mr Hart rumbled. “You are not here for a fitting, might I assume?”  
“Lord no. Sorry.”  
“No offence taken, I assure you. Very well, you may wait here until your friend arrives. I will call for—”  
“I don’t think he’s coming. I mean, I think he’s sent me here.”  
“But not for a suit.”

Greg shuffled on his feet and pulled out his phone. The end of the text made no sense, but maybe they were tailoring terms that the man, Mr Hart, might know. He passed over his phone, the text message on the screen:

**\- I know what you’re about to do. There's something you need to know first. Shop 11 Saville Row, 13:42. Galahad. Museum.**

“This is—”  
“Who sent you this message?”

The man’s abrupt change in tone made Greg start. Mr Hart was now glaring at him, at attention. “Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Ah,” Mr Hart said, his posture loosening. He then smiled at Greg. “I take it that you know his brother?”  
“Yeah, I do; is that important?”  
“It makes sense as to why Sherlock would send you here. You are rather trusting of him, I must say. My experience with the younger Holmes is to be ever wary. He can be rather unpredictable.”

Greg chuckled and nodded. “Yes. So you know Mycroft?”  
“Intimately,” Mr Hart answered, and Greg frowned. _Was that just posh for ‘very well’ or…?  
_ “Please; we can talk upstairs.”

Mr Hart picked up an umbrella just like Mycroft’s and walked up the stairs. Greg was lead into a spacious stateroom. It was even more grandiose than the shopfront.   
“Mr Hart—”  
“Harry, please.”  
“Greg. Harry… I don’t know what to say. That text is the extent of my knowledge.”

Harry smiled warmly and invited Greg to sit with him at the table.   
“You’re here to gain more knowledge. It’s understandable that you have little at present. So, you intend to enter a relationship with Mycroft. Or, propose one, at least.”  
Greg froze and flushed red. He swallowed, but wasn’t able to say anything in response.  _Who is this man? Does he have the same deduction capabilities as the Holmes brothers?_

“Greg, please don’t take that as criticism or as this situation as Sherlock trying to make you uncomfortable. It is quite the opposite; you must be important to Mycroft for Sherlock to send you here. He does care for his brother, even if he doesn’t show it much.”  
“Right.”  
“Can I offer you a drink?”  
“Um, no, that’s fine, thanks.”  
“Very well,” Harry said as he stood and poured himself a whisky. “Mycroft and I have known each other for a very long time. He and I work for the same organisation, although in different capacities. However it wasn’t always that way — we once worked together closely. He and I were partners, in every sense of the word.” 

Greg took a deep breath. _This is Mycroft’s ex?_ “Uhh, yeah actually I think I will have that drink.” _This is about to get very awkward._  
Harry chuckled and poured another glass. Greg took a large mouthful, noting that it was as exceptional a quality as everything else around him. 

“Mycroft and I have been separated for a number of years now. I still care for him greatly and am gratified to have the opportunity to aid his happiness. He does deserve some, after all these years.” 

Harry swirled his drink pensively. Greg sipped his again, at a loss as to what to say next. 

“Forgive me, Greg, but I have to ascertain something. I know Mycroft would not have expressed his affections in words, but he does things that speak just as loud. I need to know how much I can reveal to you. Have you received any gifts from him?”  
“Gifts? Um, yeah. We’ve known each other for years. He’s given me lots of little things. He… he actually tried to give me a suit from this shop, now that I think of it. I remember denying it, and having him give me just the shirt for my birthday. Yeah, I’m sure it was from here… Kingsman.”

Harry smiled at him warmly. “Excellent.”  
“He told me to wear it for work, and that he’d get me more if I needed it. That shirt probably costs more than the rest of my wardrobe combined, I don’t know what he was thinking not only giving it to me but telling me to wear it for work.”

There was something in Harry’s smile that told Greg there was more going on than he knew.   
“He must love you.”  
“I… what?”  
“For him to do that. You said you were a detective, correct?”  
“Yeah?”   
“You would encounter dangerous criminals, endangering your life.”  
“I… suppose,” Greg responded, hesitant.  
“He doesn’t want to lose you, that’s why he gave you the Kingsman shirt.” Harry rubbed his face and muttered, “Oh Mycroft, always keeping that glass up.” He then looked at Greg directly. “I made a mistake, years ago. Mycroft has been alone and sad ever since, and it’s my fault. I owe it to him to help.”

Greg downed the last of his drink. “Great,” he mumbled. He was so confused. “How? Why are you so sure he loves me because he bought a shirt off you to give me?”  
“Kingsman is an organisation that operates in secret, and it is dangerous. After losing someone close to us, who was as trained as we were, I decided it was for the best to end our relationship,” Harry said, ignoring Greg’s question. 

“Mycroft took it hard. We were fairly young, but it was quite serious between us. He was very hurt; I admit, I was not as kind as I could have been. I believed I had to put distance between myself and the things that I cared for. So, I said to him that he was precious to me, but in having him to hold, I’d destroy him… and so we had to erect barriers between us and the things we loved in order for them to remain. I used the metaphor of a museum; the only way to preserve the unique treasures was to keep them behind glass. I was so sure that my love for him was going to get one or both of us killed, like our colleague. He… well, he took it all to heart, actually. Closed himself off from everyone and everything around him. But he sealed all of that pain inside himself too.”

Harry sighed. He then refilled his drink, and Greg’s.  
“Mycroft couldn’t continue doing the work in the field that we were doing. He had to remove himself from me. He’s found a place for himself being a liaison between our organisation and the powers that be, but it’s been a lonely one.”

“That’s… it makes a lot of sense, given how Mycroft is. I just don’t understand why I had to know this?”  
“Because,” Harry said with a pained voice, “if you were to ask Mycroft for a drink, or however which way you phrase the proposition for a relationship, he would turn you down. This is so you know it is not because he is not interested or does not care, but because he is still afraid of getting close to anyone… because of me.”  
“Ah.”

“I would be relieved if he would let himself love again, but I don’t think he would yet. I haven’t really spent much time with him in the recent few years, however my understanding of him is that he is the same.”  
“Ok. So, I know now why he’s afraid of trying anything. It’s not exactly helpful, though, in getting him to go out on a date with me.”  
“Indeed,” Harry hummed. 

Greg thought there would be more to the conversation, however the silence that remained proved otherwise.   
“Do I still ask him? I’m not about to give up on him just because he’s scared.”  
“Of course. I cannot think of a way to make him realise that love is worth the risk of being shattered… any involvement I might have could make him put up even more glass than he has already. The fact that you are able to even recognise the potential of him harbouring affection for you is indication that he’s eased his standoffish manner considerably.”  
“Can’t I just tell him?”

Harry tilted his head and hummed at him questioningly.

“Just… explain that the benefits are worth the potential of getting hurt. That we’re not in our twenties anymore, and don’t take stupid risks. That I care for him and I know he cares for me already… so why not take the chance for more?”  
“That would help, yes, but he may still simply flee the situation.”  
“So I’ll try again. And again. As many times as it takes for him to see that I’m not going anywhere.”  
“Admirable. I’m glad he has someone like you who loves him,” Harry uttered gently. There was a tone of sadness in his voice. “Mycroft Holmes is very good hiding away, however, if he does not wish to be found. I fear we may have one shot in which to try convince him that caring is not the disadvantage he believes.”

Greg leaned back in the leather chair. “We?”  
“Certainly. Greg, I will do all I can to make this happen for you. It’s my fault that things are this way. I… I want him to be happy.”  
“Alright,” Greg conceded with a smile. “I guess we’ll make this our own secret operation then.”

Harry chuckled, nodded, and stood. He reached his hand out for Greg to shake. “Greg Lestrade, welcome to Kingsman.”


	2. Doctor

Greg was nervous. He’d somehow managed to convince Mycroft to have dinner with him, but hadn’t had the courage to ask for it to be a ‘date’. He intended to talk about it while they were eating. Hopefully Mycroft would stay and hear him out, even if only because he wouldn’t leave during a meal. 

Even if he did, Harry Hart was sitting nearby to intersect Mycroft should he flee. They’d decided that the best way to play it was Greg taking his chance, and then if it failed, have Harry talk to Mycroft and try resolve some of the pain from the past. 

“Mycroft, glad you could make it.”  
“Gregory, I am always pleased to see you.”  
“Great,” he said as he opened the door to the restaurant. “I’m glad.”  
“Yes, you said.”  
“Did I? Oh, yea, sorry. I just… am.”  
“Are you alright?”  
“Fine,” Greg said and made a show of putting a large grin on his face. 

_Keep it together, Lestrade. Don’t make him think something’s wrong._

“Booking for two under the name of Lestrade,” Greg said to the waitress.   
“Ah, yes. Um, we have you down for four people.”  
“No, two.”  
“It’s definitely four.”   
_Bloody Sherlock, what’s he up to now?_ “Right. That’s fine.”  
“This way, gentlemen.”

“Who else is joining us?” Mycroft asked as they sat.   
“I only booked two, so I’m guessing your brother and his husband are about to gatecrash our party.”  
“Were you planning on consuming the entire bottle of wine?”  
“W-what? No, why?” 

Greg was confused, and Mycroft instantly flushed red.   
“No, that… apologises, that was intended as a joke,” Mycroft mumbled.   
“Oh… ok. I still don’t get it.”  
“You referred to this meeting as a ‘party’, and I am led to believe that copious amounts of alcohol are generally consumed at parties.”

“ _Oh_ right. Yeah, no, no copious alcohol consumption today,” Greg laughed. He then paused. “What… led to believe? Haven’t you been to a party before?”  
“Not since I was a child,” Mycroft admitted. “I hardly classify the gatherings I am forced to attend as ‘parties’, although I admit there is often quite a lot of alcohol consumed there as well.”  
“We’ll have to rectify that.” Greg flicked his eyebrows.   
“I do not see the appeal in being around a large number of intoxicated people.”  
“No not the drunk part… the party part. Not all of them end up like that, you know. It’s a party if you’re with people and having fun.”

Mycroft still looked uncomfortable and made a non-committal noise.   
_Ah. He doesn’t think being around people is fun.  
_ “If that means it’s just you and me, then it’s still a party. So long as you’re havin’ fun.”  
“I’m glad to hear it.”

The conversation died off there, and so Greg browsed his menu. He discreetly locked eyes with Harry, who inclined his head supportively. 

Greg was only half way through the mains when two people approached the table.   
“Mycroft! It’s great to see you again!”   
“Doctor, it’s… a pleasure,” Mycroft answered. 

The man, tall and skinny with spiked brown hair, didn’t seem to notice Mycroft’s surprise. He and his friend, a ginger woman, seated themselves at the table.   
“Donna,” the woman introduced herself after sitting beside Greg.   
“Greg.”  
“Hello, I’m the Doctor,” came the exuberant voice of Mycroft’s friend. He reached out over the table to shake Greg’s hand.   
“Oh, um I guess that makes me the DI then.”  
“No, Gregory, that’s his name,” Mycroft muttered.   
“Doctor what?”   
“Just… the Doctor,” Mycroft said in a tone that meant no more explanation was coming. 

“Usually people say ‘who’, not ‘what’. I like you, DI Greg.”   
“Just Greg,” he said, still off-balance from the whole situation. “Sorry… what are you doing here?”  
“What do you mean?” the Doctor asked, biting on a breadstick.   
“It’s just… this was supposed to be just me and Mycroft.”   
“Then why’d you invite us?”  
“I… didn’t?”  
“Not you… Mycroft.”  
“I did not,” Mycroft refuted.   
“Yeah you kinda did,” the Doctor sung. He then pulled out a piece of paper from his long trench coat. 

Mycroft’s eyes widened as he read it. “I did not write this,” he uttered.   
Greg peered forward to read it. “It’s in your handwriting. That’s your signature.”  
“Indeed.”  
“So you must have.”  
“Not yet, I suspect I will do,” Mycroft huffed, and passed the note back to his friend.   
“What?” Greg laughed. “That makes no sense.”

“Oh, ‘m a hine havelrwa,” the Doctor said, his mouth full of bread.   
“Finish your mouthful! Honestly, do they not teach you manners in space school?” Donna snapped, and the Doctor gave a sheepish grin. She then turned to Greg with an exasperated sigh. “I feel like I’m travelling the galaxy with a kid sometimes.”   
“Whaaat?” Greg managed to say, drawing out the vowel far too long for normal conversation. He was completely lost.   
“He said he’s a time traveller.”

_Yeah that’s not helping._ “Riiiiight.”  
“No, really, he is,” Donna insisted. “We travel through time. Space too.”  
Greg chuckled awkwardly, not sure if it was a joke. He looked at Mycroft, who just rolled his eyes and nodded at him. 

“What’s going on?” Greg asked, looking between the three of them.   
“We’re here because Mycroft, sometime in the future, is going to give our past selves an invitation. Brilliant! Ohh, I love it when this happens. It’s always so boring when things happen in a straight line,” the Doctor explained, having lost none of his bouncy energy. 

_If he wasn’t friends with Mycroft, I’d be worried they’re high or insane._

“He’s a nine-hundred-something year old time travelling space alien, who somehow manages to behave like a kid in a candy store,” Donna told him with a serious expression. 

_Hmm maybe it’s time to revise my idea of what Mycroft’s friends can and cannot be._

Greg made to speak, but managed a singular vocal noise before deciding to shut his mouth again. Donna smiled warmly at him.   
“Don’t worry, I’m just a temp from Chiswick… or, was, at least.” 

In his dazed confusion, he looked about the restaurant and caught Harry staring at him. The man flicked his head to the restrooms.   
“Err, sorry, gotta use the toilet,” Greg mumbled, but no one at the table seemed to sense his unease. 

* * *

Mycroft watched Greg go, distracted. He’d wanted nothing more than an enjoyable quiet dinner where he could hopefully suggest another social occasion with Greg quite soon. He was in a state of constant confliction: both hopelessly in love with the DI and desperately trying to stop himself getting attached. He didn’t know how to proceed. He wanted more, but was afraid. 

“So! Why have you called us here, Mycroft?”   
“I don’t know, Doctor, as clearly I haven’t invited you yet,” Mycroft answered casually, tearing his eyes away from where Greg had been and looking at his menu.   
“You seem distracted,” Donna commented. “Could that have anything to do with the dashingly handsome Greg?”

Mycroft could feel himself reddening. Donna smiled, smug at her guess, but it was affectionate.   
“Good,” she said with a nod. “You need someone in your life.”  
“He’s not in my life,” Mycroft protested.   
“But you want him to be?”   
“Yes,” he breathed in response. 

The Doctor clapped him around the shoulder. “Brilliant! Oh, I’m happy for you, Mycroft. Trust me, being alone isn’t good for you. If you can have someone, then do.”   
“I—”  
“He’s not wrong, you know,” Donna interrupted. “I know breadsticks over there has known you longer, but I think you can trust my opinion at least. Be best that you do, too, since I’ve actually got more emotional states than a bipolar puppy.”   
“Oi! I take offence to that!” the Doctor huffed, crossing his arms.   
“I bet you do,” Donna smirked.   
“I know about love.”  
“I’m not saying you don’t.”  
“I’ve been in love before. Loads of times. Some in different ways than others.”

“Doctor, I know. You know I was just teasing. But you’ve got the soul of a defeated soldier trying to find joy in the world after the war. You’re kind, you’re understanding, but you’re hurting and running away from pain. I know we don’t talk like this much because I’m happy to indulge your attempts to fill that void with happiness derived from the silly joys in small things, but you’re honestly not the best person to try convince Mycroft to take a chance despite what’s holding him back.” 

Silence befell the table. Mycroft felt exposed, knowing that Donna also knew part of his history. The Doctor looked confronted, his energy fizzled out.   
“She’s right,” the Doctor uttered. “It hurts. I can’t let myself… it’s great, for a while, but there’s only so much heartbreak one, or two, hearts can take.”  
“I know,” Mycroft added sombrely. “That’s why I can’t.”  
“No,” the Doctor objected. He smiled sadly at him. “It’s not the same for you. He’ll stay with you. You can live together, a normal life, and grow old together. You aren’t really alone, Mycroft. Don’t make yourself stay alone by choice because that’s…” the Doctor’s voice caught, “Being alone isn’t something I would wish upon anyone.” 

Mycroft was glad that this restaurant required patrons to summon the wait staff to place an order. He didn’t want anyone to see him in the emotional turbulence he was experiencing. 

“Does he know?” Donna asked after another lengthy pause.   
“No.”  
“Tell him.”  
“I… I can’t…” Mycroft chocked out. “Too much… I mean, with… there never was a resolution.”   
“Give it time,” the Doctor said, shooting Donna a pointed look. 

Greg reappeared, walking to the table. The tension in his body relaxed at seeing him. Movement of another man exiting the restrooms caught his eye, and Mycroft froze. He reflexively stood as that man caught his gaze. 

“Mycroft?” Greg asked him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Harry Hart walking his way. Greg looked around his shoulder, back to Mycroft, and then seated himself at the table. 

“H-Harry?”   
“Mycroft.”   
“What are you… how are you here?”  
“I would have believed that to be obvious,” Harry answered casually. “I walked here.”  
Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again. 

_It’s too much coincidence that we were just talking about love and relationships and he appears. Could this be why I asked them here in the first place?_

“Of course. Apologies,” he said formally, straightening his posture further. “You are well?”  
“Yes, and yourself?”  
“Quite, thank you.”   
“Must I introduce myself to your friends, Mycroft?”  
“Oh, how rude of me. Doctor, Donna, Detective Inspector, this is Harry Hart. He is a colleague of mine.”

Harry smiled and shook everyone’s hand. Mycroft remained standing awkwardly in place at the table.   
“Doctor…?  
“Just the Doctor,” came the rehearsed reply with a smile. Harry nodded and said nothing further. Mycroft knew that Harry had heard of _the_ Doctor.   
“And it was Detective Inspector…?”  
“Lestrade. Call me Greg.”

Jealously flared through Mycroft’s chest like fire. _No, only I may call you that. Not him.  
_ “Pleasure. So, how do you all know Mycroft?”  
“I met him through his brother, but I like to think we are close enough to say we know each other independently of him now,” Greg said, a hint of cheek to his voice. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. 

“Excellent. And you?” Harry asked, addressing Donna.   
“The Doctor and I know him from years ago. He knows him better than I do, though. There was this plant, right, that had gotten into downing street…”  
“That’s quite enough, Donna,” Mycroft interrupted. “Harry certainly is too busy to spend time hearing the entire tale.”

Harry’s eyes widened with understanding.   
“Yes, well, it was lovely to meet you all. Perhaps, Doctor, and you, Donna, might regale me with the tale later on in the evening? I would be most enthralled to hear it.”  
“Unfortunately we are on a tight schedule,” Mycroft said before Donna could accept.   
“Of course. Jolly good. Do enjoy your meals, and say goodbye before you go if you can. Good evening.” 

The table watched as Harry walked off.   
“Well that was a bit rude,” Donna huffed to Mycroft as he sat back down.   
“That was his ex,” the Doctor said.   
“Typical. I keep saying it… all the decent men are on the other bus.”   
“Some of us ride both,” Greg chuckled.   
“And some of us are Timelords.” 

* * *

Dinner went fine. No one mentioned Harry again. It was unfortunate that Mycroft was so defensive in the man’s presence. Greg had talked with Harry, deciding that it was worth a chance getting Donna and the Doctor to leave the table for a while so that Greg could bring up the possibility of going out for dinner as a proper date. Harry had tried to lure their company away, even, but Mycroft was having none of it. 

They’d finished dessert when Greg’s instincts were set alight. He stopped paying attention to the conversation and focused on the feel of the room. Something was off. 

A shot rang out. Large men shrouded in black burst through the door. People screamed. Greg was on his feet before he knew it, grabbing Mycroft and pulling him to the ground and flipping the table as he went. More shots were fired. Harry was at their side, the Doctor was shouting at the intruders. Greg screamed for the patrons to stay on the ground. 

The men said nothing, but continued to fire. Suddenly, Harry was up and fighting back with an umbrella. Impressively, at that. The men were distracted, and so the Doctor rushed to usher the patrons out through the kitchen. 

“Myc, we gotta go!” Greg shook Mycroft, who was fixed watching Harry take on six of the thugs. Greg couldn’t see any of their faces, as they were all covered from head to toe in cloth.   
“He needs help,” Mycroft uttered before leaping out to Harry’s aid.   
“Mycroft!” 

Three of the six were on the ground, unmoving. Greg was shocked at how lithe Mycroft was, and how skilled he was using his omnipresent umbrella as a weapon. 

“What are you doing?” the Doctor shouted into Greg’s ear. “Get out of here!”   
“They… they’re…” Greg stuttered. He saw that more shadows were moving at the window.   
“Myc! More’re coming! We gotta go!” 

Harry leapt behind a fallen table to avoid two of the men. Mycroft was distracted briefly and thrown across the room. 

Greg screamed and jumped to him. He could hear the Doctor starting to try reason with the intruders, but he couldn’t focus on that. He just had to get to Mycroft. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft uttered, trying to pick himself up.   
“Come on,” Greg said as he lifted Mycroft to his feet enough to dart behind another table. 

A strange, high-pitched squealing noise echoed in the room. It was metallic, but sounded like it had the rhythm of a spoken language. Greg realised it was coming from the new cloaked figures entering the restaurant. He didn’t know how, but he inexplicably could understand the noises. 

“They’ve sealed the kitchen door,” Greg said. He turned to Mycroft. “You understood that too, right?”  
“Yes,” Mycroft breathed.   
“I parked in the alley,” the Doctor shouted, “if we can just get there!”   
“Fire exit!” Greg shouted. “Near the toilets!” 

He received nods. Harry then leapt back into action and began to take on more of the men. Greg was suddenly hesitant to refer to them as such. It provided enough distraction for Greg and Mycroft to make it to the table hiding Donna and the Doctor.   
“Go, we’re right behind you,” Greg said. 

The Doctor nodded, stood, and pointed a strange looking pen at the assailants. It made an oscillating noise, and the cloaked figures bent over as popping sounds were heard — like bursting circuits. 

“Run!” The Doctor shouted, and bolted.   
Greg took off after him, but instinct made him cast his eyes back. One of the men had stood upright and pointed the handgun in his direction. 

Time slowed and he froze, staring at the barrel. The shot was fired, but Mycroft had leapt between him and the weapon. Greg’s heart plummeted and he screamed a guttural cry out. He dropped to his knees to bend over Mycroft.   


“Out!” Mycroft shouted at him. “Harry! Now!”

Greg didn’t understand. Mycroft should be dead. He should be bleeding out before him. But he wasn’t. He was… fine. There wasn’t a scratch on him. His brain didn’t have time to process what it was seeing any longer, as he was forcefully grabbed by the arm and dragged out into the hallway towards the fire exit. 

“Myc… Myc…” he uttered as he was shoved through the door. Mycroft and Harry followed. The strange noise that emanated from the Doctor’s device rang out again, and Greg saw him pointing it to the lock of the door.   
“There. Sealed. Come on,” the Doctor snapped and ran towards a large blue police box. 

The doors opened and both he and Donna fled inside. Mycroft ran towards it, still tugging Greg by the elbow.   
“How’s trapping us in there gonna help?” Greg asked, confused. 

The answer he received was just another on the long list of things he wasn’t understanding today. 


	3. Sherlock

The inside was… it was bigger. Bigger than the outside. There was a whole different world inside those wooden blue doors. Greg remained frozen at the doorway, half tempted to step back outside. He might have done, had there not been crazed gun-wielding maniacs on the other side. 

“Gregory… it’s alright,” Mycroft spoke softly in his ear.   
“Myc… oh my god, Myc, are you alright? You were shot!” Greg snapped, suddenly remembering the past few minutes. He frantically started pulling at Mycroft’s front to inspect him for any wounds.   
“Greg,” Mycroft said, grabbing his hands. “I’m fine.”  
“You can’t… that’s not possible, I saw him shoot you.”  
“We are standing inside an alien space ship that is bigger on the inside. ‘Possible’ has a new breadth, don’t you think?”   
“I… but…” Greg stammered, unable to work out what to say next. 

“Mycroft, you should tell him,” Harry said from behind Mycroft.   
“You’re taking this rather well,” Mycroft mumbled over his shoulder.   
“Yes, well, I admit it is rather shocking, but I’ve read the files regarding the Doctor’s ship.”   
“Of course, yes.”   
“Tell me what, Mycroft?” Greg interrupted.   
“That is difficult to explain,” Mycroft responded quietly.

He craned his neck to see behind Mycroft, seeing Harry standing there with a serious expression, and the Doctor and Donna standing by the dials in the centre of the room.   
“This is really the spaceship? The one that lets you travel in time?” Greg called out to the Doctor.   
“Yep,” he responded, not looking at him.   
“It’s called a Tardis,” Donna told him. 

Greg braved to step closer.   
“And you really are friends with a time travelling alien, then?”   
“Indeed,” Mycroft said quietly.   
“Is that why we were attacked?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He looked over to the Doctor, who sighed.   
“I don’t know,” the Doctor grumbled. “They were definitely alien, but using human weapons. I don’t know who they are, and definitely not why they’d try and attack. I mean, why? How did they know we were there?”  
“I fear, perhaps, that you were merely collateral damage,” Harry said. “Two Kingsmen in one spot, out in the open, is certainly a target. We’ve recently been threatened by a group of terrorists who implied they would seek us out and attack when vulnerable with something we’ve never seen before.”  
“Suspicious, yes, but it still doesn’t tell me why these aliens are involved,” the Doctor groaned, running his hand through his hair. He pulled out some black rimmed glasses, and looked at the screen. 

“Mycroft… talk to me. What’s going on? Why are you… not shot?”   
“As you may have gathered, I am a member of the Kingsmen.”  
“Yeah, I got that already. Harry told me.”  
“When? Yo— oh, I see. You have met Harry before. His presence was not coincidental after all. It was a deception on your part. And I thought I could trust you,” Mycroft hissed, his tone icy. 

“No… it wasn’t… nothing like that, Myc, honest.”  
“Then why did you pretend not to know each other?!”   
“Alright, yes, that part was…but I didn’t… Mycroft, where are you going?”   
Mycroft had turned and was walking past the Doctor.   
“Mycroft!” Greg called, but he disappeared down a corridor. 

Greg was acutely aware of three pairs of eyes on him. He flushed red.   
“Give him some time,” Harry offered. “He’s always been touchy regarding being ‘deceived’. Strange, really, given the amount of secrecy in his life.”  
“Maybe that’s why,” Greg mused distantly. He couldn’t imagine it’d be easy to spend one’s life shrouded in secrets and deception, and then have one of the few people you think you can trust, to let in, turn out to be doing just the same. 

“Our suits are bulletproof,” Harry stated after a pause. Greg turned to look at him, incredulous.   
“Seriously?”  
“Yes. It’s quite the necessity in our line of work. I didn’t tell you much of what it is we really do, beyond being a secret organisation. We are the secret services that MI6 wishes they could be.”

“Wait,” Greg said, the pieces falling into place. “So, the shirt Mycroft gave me…”  
“Yes,” Harry agreed. “Bulletproof. He wanted you to wear it at work because he wanted to keep you safe. He’d only do that if the thought of losing you was too much to bear.”  
“Fuck… and here I was worried that I’d get it dirty.”  
Harry frowned at him. “I said bulletproof, not stain-proof.” 

Greg laughed. He took a deep breath. _What a day. It’s been absolutely absurd.  
_

“What do we do now, Harry?”  
“Well, I’d suggest we head back to headquarters and try and find out who these people are and what they want. If the Doctor’s right, and that they’re alien, then there’s more at play than mere rivalry.”   
“I can do that better here,” the Doctor mumbled, still staring at the screen. 

“I more meant about Mycroft. Should I go after him?”  
Harry frowned, thinking. “No, I think it best to leave him be for the time being.”

“Pyloxians! They’re Pyloxians!” The Doctor shouted. Greg flinched at the sudden noise.   
“What does that mean, Doctor?” Donna asked, shoving him out of the way of the screen.   
“They’re a mimic race. Mouldable shadows. They’ll take the form of any other living thing, but they’ll look just like a void. That’s why they were all cloaked.”  
“Yes, but what does that _mean_?” Donna pressed. 

The Doctor sucked in a breath. 

“Pyloxians are a psychic race. They’re masters of the physical body, and developed the technology of instant adjustable cloning. Normally they’re non-threatening. Not the most moral race in the universe, mind, but they’re law abiding and more focused on profits than fighting. They don’t really care for anything small scale, so whatever they want, it’s big. Sorry, Harry, but I doubt anything your organisation has will be valuable to them.” 

“I see,” Harry rumbled, obviously offended.   
“And it’s weird… they’d normally try and trick you out of something than take it by force. Think of them as the ‘kings of fine print’. This isn’t usual behaviour. Which leads me to believe we’re dealing with some small black market operators.”

Greg had to blink a few times. The Doctor could definitely talk fast when he wanted. He startled as his phone rang. His stomach flipped when he saw who was calling. He never called unless it was dire.   
“Sherlock?”   
“Greg! Hide. Now. They’ve got John. Mycroft’s not answering. They might have him too.”  
“Whoa, slow down, mate. Who has John?”  
“I don’t know! I wasn’t there, I was underground… They’ve sent me a message.”  
“What message?”  
“Ransom. I… turn myself over, or he dies.”   
“Fucking Jesus…”  _Day’s apparently not over yet._

“Get yourself safe!” Sherlock shouted. It wasn’t like him to be so panicked, or concerned about Greg’s safety. It was unsettling.   
“Why do you think they’re after me?”  
“It was… the message. They’re gonna eliminate you, and Mycroft.” 

_Ah. That explains some things._ “I think they’ve already tried, mate. I was at dinner with Myc and we were attacked.”  
“Are you alright?”  
“Yes, I’m fine. Myc’s… he’s alright too.”   
“Then why is he not answering his phone?!”   
“He’s… we had a disagreement,” Greg mumbled.   
“Oh for the love of… your ineptitude regarding romantic relationships… this is not the time for lover’s spats!”

Greg took a moment to breathe.   
“Sherlock, where are you?”  
“Hiding, obviously. They undoubtedly tried to take me, as well.”   
“Right. Well… I’ll come get you.”  
“No, it’s not safe.”  
“I can assure you I’m in very safe company. Tell me where and I’ll get you.”   
“No… they’ll hear. I have to go. I’ll contact you again soon.”  
“Wait… Sherlock!”

It was too late, as Sherlock had hung up. Greg huffed.   


“I think I have a lead,” Greg announced to the three people trying to pretend they weren’t listening in to the conversation.   
“This has to do with Sherlock?” Harry asked. Greg nodded.   
“I think so. He just said he’s been sent a ransom to turn himself over to ‘them’, who have threatened to kill me and Mycroft, or John dies.”

“Yeah, that sounds like it could be our Pyroxians,” Donna voiced.   
“Did he say why? Any details?”   
“No, nothing else, Doctor.”  
“Who’s John?” Donna asked.   
“Sherlock’s husband,” Greg answered. “Unfortunately he’s fairly skilled at getting himself abducted,” he groaned as he pinched his nose. 

“Would have thought Mycroft would have shown him to defend himself by now,” Donna chuckled.   
“John and Mycroft get on well enough, but they don’t really have that kind of friendship,” the Doctor muttered while tapping at the console. “Besides, John’s an ex-army surgeon with anger issues who enjoys the war more than he should. You can’t get much more willing, and able, to defend himself than John Watson.”   
“Except perhaps me,” Harry hummed. The Doctor shot him a look, but didn’t comment. 

“If they’re making demands for Sherlock to exchange himself for his husband’s life, then there’s something we’re missing. Trying to kill Greg and Mycroft seems like it was just to be sure Sherlock felt he had no other choice and nowhere to turn.”

The Doctor then turned some dials on the controls, causing the central spire to start moving and a grinding whirring noise to echo through the chamber.   
“Where are we going?”  
“I’ve set the Tardis to hone in on the phone signal. We need to get to him before the Pyroxians do.” 

“Doctor! Sherlock’s in trouble!” Mycroft cried as he came running into the room.   
Donna chuckled. “Yeah, we know.”  
“What? Well we have to help him!” 

Mycroft looked frantic. Greg walked over to him to try and help, but the room started to shake from side to side.   
“I know, we’re going there now,” the Doctor shouted through clenched teeth as he gripped the console. 

A sharp bang caused Greg to trip and fall into Mycroft’s arms. Thankfully the man caught him.   
“Myc,” Greg started, but he was silenced by Mycroft’s shaking head.   
“I’m sorry for storming off,” Mycroft mumbled.   
“I’m sorry for not being honest.”  
“Yeah can you two do this later?” the Doctor snapped. “Kinda busy right now.” 

The room came to a halt with a thud. Mycroft and the Doctor ran out of the room. Greg followed. They were standing on a muddy patch of earth, hidden below some concrete pillars.   
“Sherlock!” Mycroft called into the darkness.   
“I told you not to come looking for me!” Sherlock snapped as he stepped out of the shadows. “Although I admit, I was not aware you’d appear via Tardis.”

“You… you know of the Doctor?”  
“Of course Lestrade,” Sherlock huffed. “Mycroft can’t keep secrets from me that easily. In fact, I stowed away once when he refused to let me join him on a trip.”

“OH!” the Doctor shouted. “The Barnoctine Mines! Of course!”  
Both Greg and Mycroft turned and asked, “What?”  
“They use Pyroxian technology to clone their miners—”  
“Can we perhaps talk inside where no one is in danger of being killed?” Sherlock griped, pushing his way past the group and into the Tardis. 

* * *

Mycroft followed his brother into the Tardis.

“Harry… what are you doing here? I wouldn’t have thought my brother would have permitted you anywhere near him.”  
“Sherlock, always a pleasure. I’m afraid the circumstances somewhat prevented his preference as to my presence here or not from becoming actuality, given we were running for our lives. I believe I have you to thank for that, do I not?”  
“Ergh, you’re still as bad as him. For your information, _I_ am the one being tortured with this, not you. Jo—”  
“Sherlock, that is enough,” he snapped. “Bickering isn’t going to solve anything.”

Mycroft leant heavily on his umbrella. He was essentially in one of his worst nightmares: stuck in a room with his brother, who was excessively brash from distress; his stilted ex boyfriend, attempting to interfere in his life; Gregory, the man whom he was secretly hopelessly in love with, who was also exceedingly overwhelmed; and with the ever-expressive mercurial Doctor, whom technically is in control of the situation as said room is the control console of the Tardis. 

“So! The Barnoctine Mines on SLP-639. The cloners they use for their workforce is Pyroxian,” the Doctor continued.   
“Sherlock’s little adventure comes to bite him in the rear,” Mycroft muttered with a sneer.   
“What’s that?” Greg asked, in that gentle tone that made Mycroft’s knees weak.   
“That was where we went when Sherlock stowed away. He followed us and was exploring the technology in the control centre when he unwittingly activated the technology. He was scanned and used as template. We, of course, stopped the process and erased the template,” he explained. 

Greg frowned at him. “But that doesn’t really explain why they want him.”  
“No,” he agreed. Mycroft looked over to the Doctor.   
“Hmm,” the Timelord hummed. “According to the database, the process is more involved than I anticipated. It doesn’t just scan, edit, and duplicate. It injects information into the brain of the original that can then be included in the template and selected for in reproduction.”

“Ok… anything that involves injecting information into the brain sounds bad,” Greg said.   
“We checked me over and everything was fine,” Sherlock snorted.   
Mycroft’s stomach twisted. “Apparently not.” 

“It would seem that the changes are suppressed in the host. But, the information injected is… well, it could be anything. You could put the basecode of the universe in there and you’d never know. Generally it’s just history, the clone’s sense of purpose, that sort of thing. Although… it seems it implants engrams that involve the actual cloning process and science behind it. Get a hold of that, and… well, you could re-write the entire function of the technology. That’d be worth a lot to the right bidder. Doesn’t say why it does it, though. Odd.”

Mycroft clenched his jaw. “So they want Sherlock for this hidden information?”  
“So it would seem.”  
“Fine, let them have it. I don’t care. They can take it and I’ll get John back. Simple.”

The Doctor’s demeanour changed radically. He gave Sherlock, and Mycroft, a sombre look.   
“It’s not as easy as that,” the Doctor said softly.   
Mycroft felt like vomiting. He knew that tone. He’d heard that tone. Someone always ended up dead when the Doctor used that tone. 

“Mycroft? Are you alright?” Greg’s voice came from beside him, but Mycroft couldn’t turn to face him. He just shook his head gently.   
“No,” he whispered. He tried hard not to hyperventilate. 

“I don’t care how hard it is. Let them do it,” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft continued to shake his head.   
“Myc…” Greg uttered softly, holding onto his shoulder. The warmth was nice.   
“The process is fatal,” the Doctor said in that same dastardly tone. 

The room fell silent.   
“We’ll… we’ll just kill them,” Harry suggested. The Doctor shook his head at him.   
“More will come, even if you managed it. They’re psychic, remember, and shape shifters. They’ll never stop hunting you, Sherlock. They can find you from your DNA… they undoubtedly have it, and that’s why they could find you, or, well, your husband.” 

Mycroft whimpered. Greg grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. He didn’t object.   
_It’s my fault. Sherlock would of course be the curious idiot and follow me into an alien spaceship. If I hadn’t been so careless, so intent on seeing the universe with someone I could have intelligent conversation with…_

“I’ll do it.”   
“Sherlock, no. I won’t allow it.”  
“We’re out of options, Mycroft. When it’s a choice of John or me, it’s John. It’s always John.” 

He held Sherlock’s gaze. He swallowed. He knew it was true. It had been that way in the past. His heart hammered in his chest. He released Greg from the embrace, but grasped Greg’s hand and didn’t let it go.   
_How is it possible that despite my best efforts, there have always been three people I’ve loved… and I’m about to lose one while the other two watch?_

“Well… not exactly,” the Doctor said in a high-pitched tone.   
“I thought you said it was fatal?” Greg asked.   
“It is. But we do have another option,” the Doctor said, biting his lip. “Martin.”


	4. Martin

“Ooh, it’s a bit tight, hold on,” the Doctor grimaced as he worked the controls of the console. 

Greg had enough sense to grab a hold of the railing this time. The whooshing noise stopped, and there was the loud thud that signalled landing.   
“I’m not complaining or anything,” he began to Donna, who was stood beside him, “but shouldn’t a super advanced space ship that travels in time be a little less… bumpy? And noisy?”  
“Haha, yeah,” she laughed. “It can be. He says it was built to be piloted by a group. Can’t exactly blame him for the rough ride when he’s down five other drivers. Besides, between you and me, I think he likes it.”

“Greg! You’re the most normal out of all of us, and a policeman. Come with me and help calm down whoever’s out there and convince them that we mean no harm.”

Donna smiled at him encouragingly, and so Greg shuffled forward towards the door — which looked significantly smaller than it had before they landed.   
“I’ll do my best but I honestly don’t know if we do or not. Didn’t you say this process was fatal?”  
“Ah, not to Martin.”  
“Why? Who’s Martin, anyway? What’s he got to do with these Pylocks wanting Sherlock?”  
“Pyroxians,” the Doctor corrected. 

Instead of answering the rest of Greg’s questions, the Doctor opened the door and stepped out. Hesitantly, Greg followed. It was very disconcerting to suddenly step into the cabin of an aircraft. _Well_ , he thought, _Not more so than stepping_ off _an alien spacecraft that just appeared here._

He looked about, taking in the small area. There were only fifteen or so seats, and so Greg concluded it was a private jet. There was a man standing before them, wearing a red shirt and black waistcoat. He looked shocked, but exuberant at the same time. 

“Hello! Sorry to burst in on you like this,” the Doctor said with a grin.   
“ _Brilliant!_ How did you do that? Is this Douglas?” the man said, in a voice that sounded a lot more child-like than suited his late-twenties look.   
“No, this is Greg,” the Doctor answered, and Greg waved timidly.   
“Hello! No no, I just assumed that Douglas put you up to this. He’s always doing stuff like this. I honestly think he could be magic. I’m Arthur.”   
“Nice to meet you, Arthur. We’re looking for Martin. Is he around?”  
“Yeah, he’s in the flight deck. You know, flying the plane. I’ll just go get him.” 

They followed Arthur at the wave of his hand, stopping before the door to what Greg assumed was the cockpit. He looked up at the Doctor. “I don’t think you needed me to try make him calm,” he muttered.  
“No, though ‘calm’ might be the wrong word.”

“Chaps, I’ve got some blokes here who want to talk to Martin,” Arthur said into the open door.   
“How on earth do you have phone signal, Arthur? Besides, you should know better than to make calls mid-flight,” a regal voice sounded through the hall.   
“Huh? I don’t have my phone on, Douglas.”   
“Then what are you talking about?”  
“It’s like I said… I have two blokes here. They want to talk to Martin. Is that alright?”

“Is that… Arthur, we’re currently thirty-thousand feet in the air. We don’t have any passengers. They can’t have just appeared there. Don’t you see how that means you _can’t_ have anyone here to talk to us?” 

Greg froze at that voice. _Sherlock? No… Sherlock was inside the Tardis. Besides, that sounded significantly more… anxious, I suppose… than Sherlock.  
_ “But I do, Skip.”  
“ _He’s_ not Skip anymore, Arthur. I am!” Douglas protested.   
“Right, sorry Douglas. I mean Skip. It’s just, you see—”

“Hello, I’m the Doctor,” the Doctor announced as he stepped into the cabin. Greg was still in shock over hearing Sherlock’s voice, and remained where he was.   
“Sorry, we just need to borrow Martin for a bit.”  
“What?” Douglas asked.   
“What do you, how did you, how are, what, this is, no, it it it it can’t be, no, how is…” Martin babbled in one breath. 

_That’s definitely Sherlock’s voice._ Greg had to see for himself. He stepped forward to join the Doctor. There, in the chair before him, wearing a flight uniform, was Sherlock. Except… shorter.Even sitting down Greg could see that he was significantly shorter than Sherlock was. And a bit… ginger, like Myc. Greg had always wondered what Sherlock would look like if he’d gotten his brother’s ginger hair, too. But everything else, his facial structure, his lean body, his piercing blue eyes… it was identical. 

“And who are you? Yes, just come on in, it’s not like this is the flight deck of an aeroplane or anything, no. I mean, you’ve already appeared out of thin air… quite literally! Why wouldn’t you just walk in?”   
“Greg,” he answered simply. He couldn’t get over it. Mini-Sherlock, the nervous pilot.   
“‘Greg’? That’s it?” 

“Martin, you’re perhaps focusing on the wrong part of the situation,” Douglas said to his comrade. He then turned to the Doctor. “Why do you want to borrow Martin?”  
“Wait, borrow me? What? No, no I can’t! No, I’m I’m needed here. I’m flying a plane! I can’t go anywhere. That is, even if I _could_ just disappear, which I can’t, but seeing as you have just appeared, maybe that’s not entirely true after all…”  
“But Sk-Martin, Douglas can fly GERTI on his own. He’s done it loads of times,” Arthur interjected, having lost none of his enthusiasm.   
“Well I _can_ , sure,” Douglas exclaimed, “but I shouldn’t.”   
“Why not?”  
“Because, Arthur, GERTI shouldn’t take off with _two_ pilots and land with only _one_.”

“Can we just focus here!” Martin snapped. “Alright. I know that this is… insane, but since we’re all seeing this, it can’t be a hallucination. Unless it’s just me… oh, God, I’ve gone insane, haven’t I? Am I actually flying GERTI or am I in a padded white cell somewhere? Hello?”  
“Martin, calm down.”  
“No, Douglass, _you_ should be very un-calm! This can’t happen!”  
“Evidently it _is_ happening, Martin,” Douglas responded in his collected-cool voice.   
“Yeah, sorry, I landed my spaceship in the cabin just now,” the Doctor chuckled.  
“Oh just landed your spaceship, you say? Is that all? My, why didn’t we think of that?” Martin shouted. 

Greg watched the conversation unfold, glad that at least _someone_ was freaking out over the situation. He just wished it could have been him. Not-Sherlock, ‘Martin’, seemed to take a few breaths and focus. 

“Ok, ok. Right. So if we’re all seeing them then this _isn’t_ a hallucination, and we’re all definitely really here, then that means that they have to be really here too.”  
“Yes, I think I know where you’re going with this Mar—”  
“And we did, in fact, check all over before take off and they weren’t here then. I know it’s crazy, but we’ve taken away all the things that can’t possibly have happened, so I suppose the only thing that’s left, even though it seems really weird, must be the thing that did happen in fact… that they appeared on GERTI mid-flight”

Greg snorted. All eyes turned on him.   
“Oh, it’s just… something Sherlock says, give or take,” he mumbled, shaking his head.   
“Oh yes, that’s just what we did. I can show you it, if you like. My spaceship. I actually need to take you away in it, so if you could just—”  
“Oh it’s brilliant, Skip, I mean, er, Martin. All big and blue. Says ‘Police’ on the front.”  
“Police, now? Oh, so, you’re the doctor, and he’s, what, the detective?” Martin scoffed, rolling his eyes. 

“Um, yeah, actually,” Greg answered. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”   
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that! Brilliant!” The Doctor swivelled on the spot, giving Greg a bright grin. 

“Brilliant!” Arthur shouted, and Douglas groaned.   
“Great, there’s two of them,” Douglas muttered as the Doctor and Arthur kept repeating the word ‘brilliant’.

“Can I come?” Arthur asked.   
“Hm?”   
“With you. You said you want to take Martin. I want to come too. Oh, uh, I should probably ask Mum first.”  
“No, Arthur, you can’t interrupt her honeymoon with Herc to ask if you can go for a ride in an alien police space ship!”   
“Oh, but Douglas…”  
“No one is going anywhere!” Martin shouted. “I don’t care if you really are intergalactic police! I’m not going with you. I have an aeroplane to fly!”

“Oh, no, we’re not police. Well, he is, but not intergalactic.”  
“Nope,” Greg agreed. “Scotland Yard. I don’t even have jurisdiction in… hang on, where are we?”  
“We’re flying into Fitton air field,” Douglas responded. 

_Fitton? Of all the places an intergalactic time ship could have taken me, it’s a flight to Fitton._


	5. Mycroft

Mycroft was seated on the steps, the metal grating stabbing him uncomfortably. His mind was overwhelmed and his emotions were twisted into a ball he couldn’t decipher. Guilt radiated out of him. _It’s all my fault. This never would have happened if I kept a better eye on Sherlock, or if I hadn’t agreed to go to dinner with Gregory._

“Sherlock, come on. I’ll show you the specimen chamber,” Donna spoke softly behind him.   
“Why? Oh, right,” Sherlock’s deep voice responded. 

Mycroft didn’t turn to look as they walked out of the room. He heard footsteps departing, and some approaching. Harry seated himself beside Mycroft, gently brushing against him. 

“You have to stop blaming yourself,” Harry said quietly. “This isn’t your fault.”  
“You think you know me. You don’t know who I’ve become since we parted,” Mycroft snapped.   
“I do, Mycroft. That’s why I’m here.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“Don’t be angry at Greg. It was my idea to go to the restaurant this evening.”  
“How do you even know him?”  
“Sherlock. He cares for you, Mycroft. He wanted to see you happy.”

Mycroft didn’t understand exactly, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Harry. 

“He sent your detective a message to speak to me before asking you for a more serious relationship. He knew, as I did, that you’d turn him down.”  
“It would be a kindness to him,” Mycroft said sadly. 

Harry let the silence linger. Mycroft didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t particularly want to say anything.   


“Don’t be alone, Mycroft,” Harry uttered. “I’m sorry for what I did in the past. But you can’t suffer for the rest of your life because of it.”  
“You were right, though.”  
“No… I wasn’t. Caring makes things matter, Mycroft. It’s only then that we’re truly able to fight for them. Just look at Sherlock… you’ve cared for him since he was born, and even distancing yourself hasn’t stopped you loving him dearly. It’s gotten him through some hardships, some really dark times… and look where he is now. Stable and married. I’m sure he’d tell you he’s better for caring.”

Mycroft still stared straight ahead. He wasn’t able to look his former partner in the eye.  
“Gregory… I could never face myself, if I hurt him.”  
“You’re hurting him by keeping him away.”  
“If something were to happen…”  
“Mycroft,” Harry interjected more forcefully. “Don’t. You’re not living if you spend your life sectioned away from everyone. You’re just existing. I care for you too much to see you do that to yourself.” 

Harry grabbed Mycroft’s hand that rest upon his knee. Images of tender touches and loving embraces flashed through his mind.   
“Why did you say nothing before?”  
“I tried,” Harry said. “I just couldn’t be who you needed. He can.” 

Mycroft screwed his face in pain. “I love him,” he whispered.   
“I know. So let yourself love him. Be happy. There’s no point preserving things behind glass if there is no one to see it.”  
“I’m tired of your metaphor,” Mycroft whined, but he was more sad than annoyed. He didn’t move to take his hand away from Harry’s.   
“I know. I’ve never been very good at creativity, not like you.” 

“I—” Harry paused, his voice catching in his throat. “I miss you, Myc.”

Mycroft finally turned to look the man in the eye. He saw anguish, and even tears welling. He tilted his head in confusion. Harry rarely showed emotion like that. 

“But I’m—”  
“No,” Harry interjected. “The Myc I knew. The man who loved freely; devout and genuine. The man who gave me a rose in a thunderstorm, the man who waited the four hours at the airport just to be there when my delayed flight got in, the man who made me chicken soup when I had the flu… the man who held my hand as my mother passed on and let me know he was there for me no matter what looks he got from everyone. I have felt so guilty, Mycroft, all these years, for killing that man.” 

Mycroft clenched his jaw and nodded gently. He averted his gaze and looked at their hands. 

“Please tell me he’s not really gone,” Harry whispered. 

Mycroft took a breath. He could remember those times Harry spoke of, and it was easy to imagine doing the same for Gregory. 

“He was, for some time,” he spoke gently. Mycroft then looked up to meet Harry’s eyes. “Until Gregory.”   
“I owe him a debt, then.” 

“…It wasn’t you, Harry. I did it to myself.”   
“Even so. I still shouldn’t have handled things the way I did. It’s good to hear that my Myc is in there somewhere again. I still love him.”

“I am Gregory’s,” Mycroft defended.   
Harry beamed. “Yes, you are. Don’t think I was attempting to change that. Make you see it, perhaps,” he said with a chuckle. “Since you are Gregory’s, you best go and tell him.” 

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. Harry always did have a knack for convincing people of… well, anything.   
“Yes. When this is over, and I have apologised sufficiently, I will.”   
“And you’ll take that glass down?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the metaphor. “Gregory smashed it when he walked in to my life. I have been attempting to keep the museum closed until the damage was repaired.”   
“Good.”  
“I shall cease my efforts. I cannot say I am not apprehensive about doing so.”

“Just tell him,” Harry said while shaking his head good-naturedly. “Talk to him. He already knows about it being difficult for you. He’s a good man. He’ll be there for you too. You’ll learn how to be the man you used to be. Antarctica wasn’t always frozen; life could return there once it warms up a bit.” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow at Harry. “Given the formation of the circumpol—”  
“Metaphor, Myc.”  
“Sorry. Yes.” Mycroft let the silence hang for a moment before smiling to himself. “Sharing your Holy Grail, it seems, _Galahad_ ,” he added with a smile.

Harry laughed. He then pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek.   
“I’m glad it worked. Live well, Myc.”

Mycroft watched as he stood and left.   
“Harry,” he called out. “Thank you.”   


Harry nodded at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in the word play at the end: 
> 
> Antarctica had a temperate to near-tropical climate for the paleozoic and mesozoic. Technically it was a part of Gondwana back then, the southern super continent. Gondwana broke up slowly, since ~ 180 million years ago, but it wasn't until the Australian continent broke away 45 Ma (in the cenozoic) that the formation of the Antarctic Circumpolar Current formed. Now it's estimated the climate of Earth was headed towards glaciation at this time based on CO2 levels, but the formation of the current was a critical factor in both creating, and, importantly, retaining the ice sheets in Antarctica (as well as assisting global cooling). 
> 
> In Arthurian legend, Sir Galahad was one of only three to achieve the Holy Grail - the cup of life.


	6. Tardis

With the help of Arthur, the Doctor managed to convince Martin to go into the Tardis… just to prove that they were, in fact, telling the truth. 

Greg followed behind, ready to step out of the way if Martin decided to bolt. He wasn’t going to try stop the man; it was one of the moments Greg felt it was perfectly reasonable to panic and run — stepping into an alien space craft. 

Martin froze as he walked through the blue doors.   
“It’s… it’s… bigger… on the inside,” he stammered. 

Greg looked around, still slightly unnerved by the gaping space inside the small box, but smiled when he saw Mycroft. The man was sitting on the grating, watching him. 

“Oh, it’s _brilliant!_ ” Arthur shouted.   
“I like him,” the Doctor chuckled.   
“How… how are you doing this? What is this? What’s going on? I-I-I don’t… Arthur, how are you not freaking out?!”   
“It’s fine, Skip. It’s just bigger on the inside.”  
“It can’t be!”  
“Well, but it is.”  
“No no no! It’s not possible! Things can’t be bigger on the inside!”  
“Why not? Seems that it is, though. Loads of things can be bigger on the inside! This is just brilliant. It’s like… it’s like… Hermione’s handbag!”  
“Oh, that’s a new one,” the Doctor laughed. “I like it, though.” 

Martin seemed to be less-than-calmed by Arthur’s words, and instead started heaving for air. Greg felt sorry for him, but was still somewhat in shock that _Sherlock_ — even Sherlock’s clone — could behave this way. 

Mycroft had moved to stand at Greg’s side. His expression was unreadable.   
“What’s wrong?” Greg muttered to him.   
“It is strange that this man looks so much like my brother and yet have such a radially different disposition,” Mycroft responded quietly.   
“I don’t know how we’re going to have him be a convincing substitute,” Greg admitted under his breath. 

“Oi, you lot… move away. You’re useless!” Donna snapped as she arrived into the console room. She shooed the men out of the way and started to help Martin get through the anxiety gripping him. 

Greg grimaced guiltily, realising that he’d been standing in awe of the Sherlock-clone bordering on a panic attack instead of helping him. Donna spoke soothingly to Martin and it seemed to help. She was able to coax him inside away from the door. He froze, however, when standing before Sherlock. 

“So… it’s-it’s true. I-I-I am a-a clone. Of… of _him_. But… are you kidding me? I could have been _that tall_? That’s-that’s just not fair! My genes are the same as his and yet I wound up being this short? How? How is that possible? Oh, that’s just my luck, isn’t it?”   
“That was the cloning machine, sorry,” the Doctor said. “It was designed for miners, so the height is pre-programmed into it so the clones all fit in the tunnels.”   
“Oh so I’m a mining clone now? And, what? You’ve all brought me here to dig up things for you? I’m a pilot! I fly planes! That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life! Not dig about the dirt! It’s about as opposite as you can get.” 

“Yes, exactly. It’s what you wanted, Martin,” the Doctor said quietly. “When Mycroft insisted that there can’t be a copy of his brother wandering about, you were given the option of a new life. You had all of the information about mining up there in your brain, but you wanted the exact opposite. We reprogrammed your mind with the desire to be as far away from the ground as possible.” 

Greg could do nothing but watch as both Martin and Sherlock shot the Doctor, and then Mycroft, the exact same look. He smirked and nudged Mycroft.   
“I get it. One’s enough of a handful.”   
“Indeed,” Mycroft uttered back. “I find this rather unsettling.” 

“Alright we don’t have much time to waste here! I was given twenty-four hours to hand myself over. That means we have only approximately twenty hours left to turn this poor representation of myself into something that can adequately fool John’s captors into releasing him.” 

The Doctor cleared his throat. “Um about that… well,” he hedged, and then gave a smile. “I don’t always get the timing right.”  
Sherlock groaned in frustration. “How long do we have left?”  
“It was, er, about eleven in the morning out there. So…”  
Sherlock shouted some complaints, throwing his arms about in the air. 

Martin seemed to be curious as to the man whom bore his resemblance, quirking his head and watching Sherlock’s movements. He then frowned and shook his head.   
“What did you say? I have to pretend to be you? Why? Who’s John? Why do I have to negotiate his release? Why’s he been captured? What’s going on?”

Sherlock rounded on Martin, but Greg stepped in between them.   
“Sherlock, go do something else. Think. Observe. Anything. Just calm down. We’ll sort this out, ok?” 

Sherlock pursed his lips but stormed off to the other side of the room. Greg then turned to Martin. Instinctively he looked up, and found himself having to drop his gaze down.

“He’s under a bit of stress right now, Martin. I know a lot has been thrown at you, too. We’ll try and give you some answers. As far as I can work it out, some aliens have captured John and are demanding Sherlock turn himself over in exchange for his husband’s life because they need to extract something implanted in his brain when he was cloned. He can’t do that because it’d be fatal to him, but it wouldn’t affect you, as a clone. We need you to help us get John back without it killing Sherlock.”

Martin was stoney faced as he listened. He opened his mouth a few times to respond, but closed it again. Everyone remained silent, waiting for Martin to process the information. Greg felt the compulsion to wrap the man in a hug. He’d wanted to do so for Sherlock many times in the past, seeing him as just a kid that needed support… Martin’s short stature was a lot more suited to it, he had to say. It had always stricken Greg how much of a little child Sherlock could behave despite looming over most people. 

“ _Husband?_ ” Martin wrenched out after a few minutes.   
Greg glanced over to Mycroft, who had drifted towards Sherlock. “Um… yea—”  
“I’m gay?”   
“Well, Sherlock is, but you’re not exactly him…” Greg tried to reason.   
“ _That’s_ what you’re taking away from all of that?” Sherlock snapped from a distance. 

“This explains so much,” Martin said breathily. “I was always like a fish out of water around women, but I mean, I knew I had to keep trying… but, no, I-I-I do like Theresa. She’s… well, she’s an aviation nerd! What’s not to like? No one else has… oh… my… god… is that why I like her? Because she shares my one and only interest? Not because she’s… a she? My whole life is flashing before my ey—”

“Martin calm down,” Greg stressed, and actually put his arm around Martin’s shoulders. “I think you’re fixating a bit much on this.” 

Sherlock decided that was the time to start shouting a long list of things that Martin apparently should instead fixate on, but was able to be quietened by Mycroft. 

~

It took a while, but the party was eventually able to convince Martin that he could pretend to be Sherlock — after landing the plane in Fitton. The Doctor worked out a plan to get John released safely with Sherlock’s help, Greg offered to help Martin learn to imitate Sherlock’s mannerisms along with Mycroft (and for some reason Arthur), and Harry stood awkwardly to the side with Donna.

“You have to pretend you know everything there is to know, and that everyone else is stupid and therefore not worth your time,” Greg explained.   
“How do I even do that?” Martin asked, shifting about in a replica of Sherlock’s clothing, made to his size, that the Doctor somehow managed to find.   
“Oh, Skip… just pretend that the only knowledge is about aeroplanes.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“Well, you always sound like you know everything when you talk of planes.”   
“And, what? Everyone else knows nothing?”  
“Exactly! Pretend they’re all me!”

“That’s a bit harsh on yourself,” Greg said to Arthur, who was oddly still beaming at his own suggestion.   
“No, that’s alright, Greg. I really don’t know much at all. Unless it’s about bears. I know quite a lot about bears. Not as much as I did, when I had the book, but I remember a fair bit of it! For instance, did you know—”  
“Thank you, Arthur, we don’t need to know that right now!” Martin snapped. “Sorry, gosh, I didn’t mean to shout at you.”  
“Ah, no, none of that, either,” Greg reprimanded. “Sherlock doesn’t apologise for being a bastard.”  
“Really? How do people still like him?”

Greg was stumped for a moment to answer. “Most don’t,” Greg admitted. “But there’s a good man underneath all of those sharp edges, and it doesn’t half help that he’s a genius and so useful enough to keep around until you learn to like him.”   
“A genius, really? Are you absolutely sure Skip’s a clone of him, then?” Arthur asked innocently.   
“Arthur! I am plenty smart!”   
“Yeah, well, not really, though, are you? Not a genius-smart. Just… plane-smart.” 

Greg patted Arthur on the shoulder softly.   
“I am the only person ever to get a hundred percent on the Swiss Airways technical exam!”  
“Ah, see? There’s some Sherlock genius in you after all,” Greg said with a smile, trying to make the man feel better.  
“Yes, but it was only because I memorised the entire six hundred page manual,” Martin mumbled, deflated.   
“That’s impressive,” Greg said honestly. “Only someone with a memory like the Holmes brothers could do that. You can do this, Martin.”   
“Yeah. If you can pretend to be Douglas, you can pretend to be Sherlock,” Arthur commented. 

“So. Keep your voice low, try and use words like ‘dull’ and ‘bored’, and be sure to act like everything annoys you. Sneer at them occasionally, but be sure to act like you know what’s going on. You have to speak slowly and with confidence. Remember, you’re a genius with an impressive knowledge base, and skill set, and you have to let them know that you’re not intimidated by them.”   
“Is that all?” Martin scoffed. Greg smirked.   
“Not bad. And no, that’s just what we need at least for this exchange thing the Doctor’s setting up.” 

“This is the weirdest day of my life,” Martin grumbled. He thrust his hands in the large coat pocket.   
“Yeah, mine too. All I wanted to do was ask Mycroft out… and here I am, in a space ship trying to teach Sherlock’s clone how to negotiate with aliens.” 

“…Greg? What’ll happen if I fail?” Martin asked, timid.   
“I don’t know.”  
“Sherlock’s not going to lose his husband because of me, is he?”  
“Don’t worry about that, Martin.”

Martin was going to respond, but Sherlock sprang to life behind them, shouting that he was being contacted again. Sherlock agreed to the Pyroxians’ conditions, after being able to speak with John. 

“We have to keep the Tardis, and other alien involvement, a secret… since they could panic, kill all involved, and flee,” the Doctor reminded. “They’ll be on the lookout. Damn it! I can’t land the Tardis in London.”

“You said we needed to have the Tardis close enough to make sure they don’t detect the markers showing Martin’s a clone,” Mycroft said, frowning. The Doctor nodded, running his hand through his hair. 

“Well what are we supposed to do then?!” Sherlock shouted. “We need to be there in three hours or John dies!”   
Greg chuckled. “Sherlock, you know, if only you were a pilot in another life.”


	7. Greg

Mycroft watched from the sidelines as events took place. It wasn’t his battle to fight, and his presence was only setting Sherlock more on edge. 

He had to admire Martin’s bravery. He was immensely glad that the Doctor had found Sherlock’s clone a new life, and incredibly guilty that he’d demanded the clone be ‘removed’ from Earth — one way or another. 

Greg was still doing his best to help. The man always tried his best to be kind to others. Mycroft watched with fondness as Greg gave Martin his final pep-talk before meeting the aliens. 

The Doctor had his attention fixed onto the screen at the console, ensuring that the procedure would work without incident. 

Harry had bid his farewells once landing in London and left back to the shop. Mycroft was glad that they could part amicably; he felt like they finally had built that bridge for the waters of their past to flow by unperturbed. 

“There they go,” Donna said as she seated herself beside Mycroft. “Sometimes it’s best to keep out of it. He’s getting in a mood, and when he’s like that, it’s best to leave him do what needs doing and be there afterwards.”  
“Yes, I agree. You know the Doctor well.”  
“I should hope so. He’s the most important man in my life. Gosh, listen to me. Makes me sound like we’re married. So not gonna happen. It’s true though. He’s special, and I love him to bits. But not that way. He needs someone to rely on and trust, without all that complicated shit of romance. Someone he can show his weaknesses to and get support as well.”   
“Indeed.”  
“Your Greg that for you? I know you’d be there for him through anything.”  
“He would be; that and more.”  
“I’m glad.”

They sat together in companionable silence for a while. Donna was one of the few people he knew whose company he enjoyed without needing to say much. She never judged him for his oddities, and was always deeply kind — like Gregory. She never cared that he was more intelligent, or that he’d spend long periods of time talking with the Doctor about things that went over her head. 

“Look after him, Donna,” he said softly. “I worry sometimes. I know what it can do to a man to live with pain, and guilt, and power.”   
He looked over to Greg and smiled. “We need someone to keep us right.”  
“Don’t worry Myc. I will. I promise.”  
“Good. Good. I know you will. You’re exactly what he needs.” He gave her a sad smile, and then looked back over to the Doctor. “I fear what he’d become without you.”  
“Don’t worry about that. I’m gonna stay with that man forever.”

Greg started to walk over towards them, having left Sherlock to chatter nervously with the Doctor. Donna leaned into Mycroft’s ear and whispered, “you should stay with yours forever, too, you know.” 

Donna stood and started to walk away to give Greg and Mycroft some space. Mycroft had blushed slightly, and nodded at her pointed look.   
“I expect an invitation, Mycroft Holmes.”  
“You shall have it.” 

“What’s this?” Greg asked, seating himself were Donna had been.   
“You may find out one day.”  
“Oh. Thanks, I guess.” 

Greg stretched out. “I’m knackered. It’s been a very long, very weird, day.”  
“Indeed. I am so sorry, Gregory.”  
“It’s not your fault.”  
“Still, you became involved because of me.”  
“I think I became involved because your brother rocked up high to one of my crime scenes ten years ago and solved it,” Greg laughed.   
“I doubt it has been that long.”  
“Christ, feels it sometimes.” 

Mycroft smiled fondly at him. “You are somewhat correct, however I specifically am referring to joining you for dinner.”  
“Oh, well, if you weren’t there it’s likely I would have been killed… so really, you saved my life. You… you actually saved my life. Christ, Mycroft, I forgot… sorry, were were being shot at and then were in a spaceship bigger on the inside that travelled in time onto a jet mid-flight to find Sherlock’s clone… fuck if that’s not a reason to get distracted. Is this what it’s like to be high?”  
“I don’t know, to be honest,” Mycroft said, raising both eyebrows. “And it is quite alright. You are handling this remarkably.”   
“Ask me tomorrow,” Greg laughed. “I’m still somewhat in a state of disbelief, I think. Though, if you decide you wanna screw with me tomorrow and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about…”  
“Yes?”

Greg looked stunned that he had to actually finish his sentence. Mycroft chuckled to let him know it was meant as a joke. “Don’t worry, I shall not.”  
“Good. Cause… honestly? I’d hate to think none of this happened.”  
“How so?”  
“Because… I’ve learnt more about you in the past few days, few hours, than I think you would have ever told me willingly.”   
Mycroft quirked his eyebrow at him.   
“Your friends are chatty,” Greg explained. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and then looked down at his knees. Yes, they could be when they felt like it. He felt Greg nudge him with his shoulder. He looked up into his eyes questioningly.   
“It’s good,” Greg said.   
“I feel at a somewhat disadvantage.”  
“How so?”  
“You have now learnt a lot about me, and yet I have had no such teachings from your friends.”  
“Oh don’t pretend you don’t have a big file on me.”  
“I… I cannot refute that, however, I have not read beyond the most basic information.”

Greg frowned at him in confusion.   
“You are obsessed with knowing everything. Why didn’t you?”  
Mycroft flushed red and swallowed. “It did not seem… appropriate.”  
“Appropriate.”  
“Yes.”  
“Why?”  
“Because…” Mycroft struggled to formulate his reasonings. He came up short. 

Greg’s face slowly turned into a grin. “You didn’t want to seem creepy, when you felt something for me.”  
“Yes.”  
“So even back then you liked me? Enough to be hopeful that we would continue meeting and it wouldn’t be weird to know everything there is about me?”  
“I… yes,” Mycroft admitted quietly.   
“Then why didn’t you say… oh. Married. Right.” 

Greg huffed to himself. “I’m sure you would have worked out that it was in shambles without needing to read the file.”  
“It was not my place.”  
“And that what makes you better than your brother,” Greg said pointedly. 

Greg reached out and took Mycroft’s hand. “I know expressing affection is difficult for you, so let me take the lead?”  
Mycroft couldn’t do more than nod.   
“So answer me this, Mycroft Holmes. Do you want to try giving a relationship a go?”  
“Yes. I-I would like that very much,” he said, his voice timid.   
“Good.”  
“And you? What do you want?”

Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand and barked out a laugh. “Honestly Myc? Right now, I just want a foot rub.”  
“I… I’m sure I could…”  
“No, I was just… never mind. Yes, of course I want a relationship with you, you adorable dunce.”

Mycroft’s heart swelled so much he didn’t so much as blink when Gregory had called him a ‘dunce’. He couldn’t stop grinning. 

They both stopped talking as John emerged through the doors and ran into Sherlock’s arms. Mycroft sighed in relief. Things could have become a disaster at so many points in the last twenty-four hours, and yet somehow, it had all worked out for the better. 

“Good to see a happy ending,” Greg said gently. “Knew Martin could pull it off. He’s still mostly Sherlock, and that bastard can put it on when he wants to.”   
“Things have a tendency to work out against undesirable odds when the Doctor is involved,” Mycroft commented.   
“How’d you meet him, anyway? I know you knew him before he and Donna met.”

Mycroft watched as Donna gave the Doctor a hug. The Timelord was much better with her. He wasn’t as pained, or as reckless.   
“That is a story for another time,” Mycroft answered poetically. He didn’t want to bring the mood down. It wasn’t the happiest of tales.   
“Another time then. I expect I’ll be involved from here on in… Donna slipped me her number. Told me it was in case you turned me down, but she was just joking. Probably.”

Martin joined them, much to a very nervous Arthur’s relief, and was greeted with a warm hug from Sherlock. John stood by, looking extremely confused. 

“Don’t want to know what he’s thinking right now,” Greg chuckled under his breath.   
“Hm?”  
“Well, what would _you_ be thinking if you suddenly had two of your husband?”

Mycroft screwed his face in disgust, much to Gregory’s amusement.   
“Here, something to take your mind off it,” Greg muttered. He then placed a kiss upon Mycroft’s cheek. 

Electricity surged through his body as Gregory’s lips were pressed against his skin. He could feel himself blushing again — incredibly easy a feat, given his complexion — and smirked like a teenager. 

Mycroft turned to face Gregory. “You would perhaps be amenable to reattempting this dinner, as an official date?”  
“Yeah, sounds great. Let’s keep it simple, this time, yeah?” 

Greg was still beaming brightly, and it was infectious.   
“Unfortunately ‘simple’ is not something I am very skilled at,” Mycroft mused.   
“No,” Greg laughed. “I suppose not. But that’s what I like about you. Everything is always interesting. Maybe just avoid aliens and time travel.” 

Mycroft jumped as he remembered that they still had to invite the Doctor and Donna to dinner.   
“Oh! We still have to do that.”  
“Do what?”  
“Time travel.”  
“What? Why?”

Mycroft left Greg to think it over and went to join the Doctor.   
“Do you have a pen and paper?”   
“Hm? Oh, um… somewhere,” the Doctor answered. He bent down to look under the console. 

“Here, you can borrow mine!” Arthur said happily, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small notepad and a pen.   
“Thank you,” Mycroft said as he took it.  
“I always carry it with me. Just in case I forget people’s orders, or something else that I need to remember.”  
“You write it down _after_ you forget them?” Martin asked, incredulous.   
“Well, once I remember them again, obviously, Skip,” Arthur laughed. “Don’t always get it right, but there’s no harm in just asking again!”

“What are you writing?” The Doctor asked as Mycroft found a hard surface to scribble his note on.   
“I have to invite you to dinner last night.”  
“That makes no sense,” Martin grumbled.   
“Oh! Of course. It was stuck on the Tardis door when I found it, so I’ll grab you some tape as well. I know I have some around.”

The Doctor started fishing about in a storage compartment under the grating at his feet. Martin remained at Mycroft’s side, frowning.   
“Oh my god, you’re talking about time travel aren’t you? That’s not… oh, you’ll tell me that it is, won’t you? This ship can appear out of nowhere and is _bigger on the inside_ , why shouldn’t it travel in time as well?” 

Martin sounded a mix of annoyed, confused, surprised, and sarcastic. It was still strange to hear Sherlock’s voice take on that quality for Mycroft.   
“Exactly,” the Doctor said while he had his arm still in the compartment. “Why shouldn’t it?”  
“Because it’s impossible!” Martin shouted. “No, no, really… I guess… given everything, that’s… it’s certainly possible. Alright. So. You needed to borrow Arthur’s notepad to write a message to invite your friend to a dinner you’ve already had. Sure. Great.”

“Are you alright, Skip?”  
“Fine, fine,” Martin said unconvincingly. “I think… I think I’m going to take a holiday.”  
“Brilliant! I’ll pack my polar bear towel. And you know Douglas is gonna want a lemon.”  
“No I didn’t… you know what? Fine. Pack whatever you like, Arthur,” Martin groaned, sighing. 

“A lemon?” the Doctor asked, taking the note off Mycroft once he had found some tape.   
“Yeah! It’s this game that he does. It’s _brilliant_. The Travelling Lemon, it’s called. You have to put the lemon somewhere without anyone noticing, and the next person goes and finds it and hides it somewhere else. I tried to play once, but I was rubbish at it.”  
“Because you’re not supposed to _hide_ it, Arthur. Or eat it!”  
“That iced tea was amazing, though, Skip. And technically, the lemon was out still for you to find.”  
“We told you before, you did not win,” Martin griped.   
“So you just take the lemon to as many different places as you can?” the Doctor asked, his face lighting up.   
“Yep. It’s hilarious to see. Once Skip lost it because it was on his hat,” Arthur chuckled.   
“Ohhhh this is brilliant. Donna! We need a lemon!” 

The Doctor rushed off towards the kitchen.   
Donna sighed exasperatedly, but smiled. “Someone’s found a new game. Expect a lot of photos, Mycroft.”   
“Don’t tell me he’s gotten into _blogging_ ,” Mycroft stressed, hanging his head as he thought of his brother.   
“Not from him,” Donna responded with a wink. 

Mycroft chuckled and smiled fondly at her. He then handed back the notepad and pen to Arthur.   
“I may end up seeing you again one day. If not, then best of luck,” he said, before inclining his head and returning to Gregory. 

“The Doctor is going to deliver my note for me,” he announced. “I believe we have had enough excitement for one day.”  
“God yes,” Greg agreed. “Since I technically haven’t slept in two days, I’m going to go crawl into bed as soon as I can.”  
“I believe I will join you.”  
Greg laughed. “Will you now? Well, I can’t say you aren’t forward enough.”

Mycroft tilted his head and frowned, confused. Then he realised what it sounded like he’d suggested.   
“No! I wasn’t inviting myself over to join you in your bed, Gregory, I was merely suggesting that I, too, would adjourn to bed the moment I—”  
“Geez, Myc, relax. If this relationship is gonna work, you’re gonna have to learn to spot when I’m taking the piss.”  
“…Ah. Apologies.”  
“Nah,” Greg said with a shrug. “You’ll learn. We have plenty of time.”  
“All of it, for the moment,” Mycroft suggested playfully, waving about the Tardis. 

Greg laughed, stepped closer, wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, and kissed him. 


End file.
